Promise
by CrumblingAsh
Summary: AU. Avengers/Silent Hill fusion. The first time Bruce saw Tony Stark, it was from the flat of his back, beaten into the dirt where he belonged.


**disclaimer - I do not own Avengers and do not make any profit from this work.**

**Warnings - **This story and all following stories of the series contains **canon-typical graphic descriptions of violence and murder** normal for the Silent Hill universe.

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**Promise  
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The ground was hard, freezing – rain dripped to the earth as if the sky had been brutally sliced open in slaughter and splattered with the harshness of unfair, violent death. The school was shrouded in overcast skies and unfeeling fog, yet there were few things even the weather could do to stop the play of children.

_"Demon!"_ They hissed. _"Monster!"_ They shouted. _"Abomination."_ They whispered, for though the fear of invoking the wrath of hell their elders warned them of could not quell their spat hate, it was enough to make them timid of releasing it.

His clothes were not thick; drank up the rain like a burning man desperate for relief he could not get. His body was already ruined long before their enthusiastic punches and gleeful kicks, already used under the tender ministrations of the father who had been unfortunate enough to sire one as consumed as him.

Hated.

His given name was Robert, as his mother had called him before his father, poisoned by the existence of his son, had crushed her against the brick of their home until Bruce could no longer recognize the softness of her smiling face under collapsed bone and too much blood. 'Robert' had fallen silent when she died; only titles remained behind, the barely used name of "Bruce".

Shunned. Outcast.

The playground was made of dirt, and it clung to his skin as he scrunched up in it, curling into himself if only to stave off a little of the pain as the jeers and attacks of his classmates only grew more excited under the rain. Teachers were absent, sheltered from the rain – he scrunched his eyes tighter, buried his face into the mud. At least he would not see their smiling faces today.

_'And I saw the dead,' _ _his mother's soft, faded voice echoed in his mind, the vicious laughter of his peers mere accompaniment to the words, _ _'the great and the small, and they were judged according to their deeds. And anyone's name not found written in the book of life, they will be thrown into the lake of fire.'_

He bit back the whimpers, the cries that would go unheeded, protected his stomach, already so sore, tucked in his head and prayed, so silently, that one small sharp shoe would collide with his exposed neck in just the right way-

And then suddenly, it all stopped. The world fell silent, the torment leashed like the devil's rabid dog, the rain ceasing its caress of his frozen, screaming skin. And then something gentle, firm wrapping around his arm – he flinched from it, but it insisted, pulling him up, forward, back into the rain until he was sitting up, as his eyes finally opened.

Another boy, taller than him; different, new, dressed sharply and respectable, nice pants ruined as he knelt in the mud beside Bruce. Water beaded from his dark hair, dipped into brown eyes gone red from the irritation that would not stop staring at him, calculating, cold; tinged uncertain.

"_Stark,_" someone whispered, and Bruce's body seized.

Stark. Anthony Stark. The nephew of Obadiah Stane, the son of the late Howard Stark. The whispers around Silent Hill had been far from quiet, practically shouted in anticipation from mouth to ear, from stories of the deaths of his parents to his impending arrival to their town and religion. Rumor had it he was being groomed to be the next leader of the Brethren, a true speaker to god.

The hand on his elbow tightened just so slightly.

"What," Stark ground out quietly, voice pitched just above a growl, "would the Elders have to say of this?"

Accusing, fatal words; but he wasn't looking at Bruce anymore. Instead, his gaze swept over the small crowd like the swipe of a sharpened sickle stained brown from old blood. The other children shifted, unease suffocating as the fog crept closer, licking at their feet.

"They're fine with it," someone spat, more nervous than disrespectful, at the same time another quietly said, "They told us to recognize evil."

Bruce flinched again, wanting nothing more than to be back in the dirt where he belonged, where he was safe, as Stark nodded. But the older boy did not release his arm, keeping the same pressure, keeping him from laying back into the ground. "Ah," he said, as if he understood, "so they permit blasphemy, then? I heard you using the Lady's name in your cursing. Does the Brethren allow such a sin to go unpunished now?" The silence was deafening – Bruce was certain no one, including himself, was breathing.

The smirk that twisted across Stark's lips was as wicked as any painted demon's, his eyes narrowing in proud triumph. "I didn't think so. If you leave _now_, go to class and get some early studying done, maybe I'll forget to bring it up to them."

They moved as a herd, not quite running but not daring to walk, a scatter of fear and vicious whispers the sounds of their shoes in the mud messed to distorted noise. It was only when the last of their forms had disappeared into the fog that Stark let go of Bruce's arm, standing to his full height like Death rising in the rain. All traces of the calm, cool young man washed away like the mud on his clothes, leaving behind an earnest expression in old eyes as he extended his hand down to Bruce.

"Banner, right?" He questioned quickly, blinking rapidly as the rain picked up its assault as he snatched Bruce's hand, pulling him up with gentle ease, as if he knew his pain. "Um, Ro- no. No. Bruce?" Bruce could only nod, surprised at the use of his name, startled even more at the huge, tentative grin that split across the older boy's face. "Great. I was hoping it was you."

He sounded so relieved; something agonizing bloomed in Bruce's chest. "You… you were?" _Why? _He didn't ask.

Stark's grin faded down to another smirk, this one different from before – less twisted, more wistful; he could see the neat, refined white edges of a scar peeking out under the collar of his jacket, ugly and crude. "Yeah," he confirmed, nodding. "We're going to be friends. Call me Tony."

The pain in Bruce's chest seared.


End file.
